


Only Fools Rush In

by WallabyKangerooAmbiguous



Series: Only Fools Rush In [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blowjobs, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, handjobs, in which r is a tease and enj is needy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 04:06:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5570398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WallabyKangerooAmbiguous/pseuds/WallabyKangerooAmbiguous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Had he been able to dress for Courfeyrac’s party of his own volition, Enjolras would not have shown up in the get-up he was wearing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only Fools Rush In

**Author's Note:**

> This wasn't beta'd, so please let me know if you see any errors. I saw a Halloween party prompt on Tumblr and I know it's December but I liked the idea so here is my porn please enjoy it.

Had he been able to dress for Courfeyrac’s party of his own volition, Enjolras would not have shown up in the get-up he was wearing.

He’s profoundly grateful that Courf’ hasn’t gone with throwing the yearly tradition of an outdoor party, having decided that the cold was too strong and the wind too biting for anyone to show up in anything resembling a proper costume, unless they’d decided to go for Halloween bundled up and ready for winter. That said, an indoor party meant Éponine was free to dress Enjolras however she so chose, and that meant she could put him in the ridiculous costume she’s chosen.

He’s picking at a stray thread on the dark blue skinny jeans which she has clad him in, form-fitting pants that hug his body from his ass to his ankles. “This is so ridiculous,” he mumbles, taking off the police hat that Éponine had scrounged up and running a hand through his hair.

“Put your hat back on, Enjolras. You look sexy,” and Éponine, dressed head-to-toe like a Roman gladiator (a sexy Roman gladiator, of course, in true Éponine style), throws a wink at him from the driver’s side. They’re pulling into Courfeyrac’s driveway and Enjolras is legitimately considering leaping from the car and running the other way, but Éponine would probably catch him. Even in sparkly gold heels, the girl can run.

So he allows Éponine to shove the fake baton into his hand and pull him out of the car. His cheeks are already light pink when he climbs out onto Courfeyrac’s driveway, but when someone standing on the stoop and smoking a cigarette whistles he feels like he might burst into flame. “I am so getting you back for this,” Enjolras hisses. For many years now, Éponine has planned costumes and Enjolras has planned Christmas sweaters, and it’s generally agreed that no one ever goes too overboard with the sexiness of the costume, or the ugliness of the sweater. But this year, Enjolras is already picturing the ugliest Christmas sweater he can possibly think of, and she’ll be wearing it if he has to knit it himself.

“I look forward to it,” she says, grinning at him and pulling him inside by his wrist. talking about how he needs desperately to get laid and Éponine is going to be damned if it doesn’t happen tonight. “- I already have a few guys lined up for you to flirt with,” she’s saying. “Of course if none of them catch your fancy I’m sure something else could be arranged.”

“You’re a horrible person, 'Ponine.” Enjolras says, tugging his hand away from hers. Still, he agrees in his head, he could use a good lay. He’ll never tell Éponine, that had been decided a long time ago, but he agrees with her ideas most of the time, even if the plans to execute them are horribly thought through. Well, more like not thought through at all. “Who have you decided to whore me off to tonight?”

“Let’s see… oh! There’s one; short, dark hair, dressed like a pirate.” She points as much as she can without it being profoundly obvious, and Enjolras shakes his head immediately. The guy looks like plastic, all white teeth and perfect hair and shiny skin, and maybe Enjolras shouldn’t judge him from his looks, but if he’s going to be made to sleep with someone, he’d rather sleep with someone that looks like a real person, thank you very much. “Okay, then… ketchup bottle, three o’clock.”

The second guy isn’t too bad, Enjolras supposes. There’s nothing wrong with him at first glance, but he just doesn’t feel right. “Maybe,” he says, since Éponine will get on him for months if he rejects every one of the guys she’s picked out for him. “Anyone else?”

“Him,” she points, now, to a man with curly black hair resembling in style and length to Enjolras’ own. His features could be described as mousy, and he’s dressed in ragged clothes and too many layers and holding a bottle of alcohol in one hand. Éponine takes a look at Enjolras and the look on his face must be something resembling stricken, because Éponine smirks and walks away, leaving Enjolras in a muscle shirt and combat boots staring helplessly at this guy he’s never even seen before.

He watches Éponine weave seamlessly through the throng of people at the party, watches her go over to the dude and greet him, watches them hug and watches her point at Enjolras and watches Éponine’s friend grin like the cat who got the cream.

Then he’s moving over to Enjolras and Enjolras feels like jelly, and he thinks maybe he should sit down, and then he hears “hi” and it came from Éponine’s friend and Enjolras doesn’t think he can produce sounds.

“Hi,” comes out, and he’s glad he hasn’t lost all ability to function. “I’m Enjolras.”

“Éponine told me. I’m Grantaire; it’s nice to meet you.”

“You, too.” He’s grasping at straws, trying to remember language and etiquette, even though they both know how tonight ends. They might as well go through the motions before they end up in bed together. “Um… what’s your costume supposed to be?”

“I’m a wino. Or a bum. Or both, I guess. Not too far off from what I am day-to-day anyway, so I figured I might as well come in this. You?” Grantaire gives a nervous little chuckle at the end, smiling hopefully at Enjolras.

“I’m a ‘sexy cop.’ Éponine picked it out for me, it’s kind of a tradition.” He finds himself speaking to Grantaire with more and more ease. “So, how do you know Courfeyrac?”

“Éponine and I have been friends for a while; we were out for coffee one afternoon and we ran into Courfeyrac and Combeferre and she introduced us.” Enjolras shouldn’t know what he’s talking about, but he does, because Combeferre invited Enjolras but Enjolras had been too busy doing Lord know what, and suddenly he feels a sick twisting in his gut because that was awhile back and good God he could’ve known Grantaire so long ago. Grantaire gets slightly closer to him now, and Enjolras feels goosebumps breaking out over his skin as he uses adjusting the collar of the muscle shirt as an excuse to press their bodies together, much closer than required for doing what Grantaire was doing, but Enjolras isn’t going to complain about it. “Do you want to get out of here?” Grantaire asks, and he’s looking up at Enjolras through his eyelashes and good Lord Enjolras doesn’t think there’s anything he’d like to do more.

He can’t speak around the thick lump in his throat, so he settles for swallowing hard and nodding stiffly, and then Grantaire is tugging him out to his car, and it’s shoddy and run down but at this point Enjolras would ride around in a shopping cart if it meant getting somewhere where he and Grantaire could be alone. He climbs into the passenger’s side and gives directions back to his house.

The tension in the car builds with every passing second, and by the time they pull into Enjolras’ driveway the boys are squirming, Enjolras looking over at Grantaire, whose eyes are fixed solidly on the road, or Grantaire looking over at Enjolras when they’re at a red light and the blonde man is looking elsewhere.

They get out of the car and as Enjolras is digging around in his pocket for his keys, Grantaire is coming around the hood of the car and pulling Enjolras into a rough kiss that knocks the air out of Enjolras’ lungs and he thinks he should probably sit down for fear of falling on top of Grantaire. Then again, falling on top of Grantaire sounds like a nice idea right now, though not in the biting autumn air that seeps into his skin regardless of the sparks of heat that the kiss has sent through him.

He breaks away briefly to find the right key, Grantaire whining and pulling on his shirt like a petulant child, and Enjolras has time to chuckle and find the right key and think _cute_ before he’s pulling Grantaire back in again and they’re maneuvering carelessly back to Enjolras’ door and he’s trying to insert the key into the lock without breaking the kiss. He can’t get it, and when he grunts in frustration, Grantaire takes the key from him and shoves it effortlessly into the lock. Now they’re tumbling in a mess of arms and legs back into the house. It’s dark because Enjolras forgot to turn lights on before he left, but he knows his house plenty well enough to navigate them to where they need to be. “Where are we doing this?” Grantaire asks without moving his mouth away from Enjolras’. His lips move against Enjolras’ own and breath puffs against Enjolras’ face and heat is pooling in Enjolras’ stomach like fire.

“Bed,” he says, more of a demand than a suggestion. Grantaire grins and his comment, something like ‘lead the way’ that Enjolras’ mind doesn’t have the time nor the care to process, is lost in another searing kiss. They’re stumbling up the stairs now, a heap of bodies, and they almost fall twice, but eventually they get successfully onto the second level and Enjolras leads the way back to his room. Once they’re inside, Grantaire puts his hands on Enjolras’ hips and steers him backwards until the backs of his knees hit the bed and buckle, and he lands on his ass with a grunt.

Grantaire stares down at him for a moment before climbing into his lap, pushing their lips together again, seeking more, and their bodies slot together perfectly. From this position, Grantaire can grind easily against Enjolras. He has total control, setting the pace and the friction, and pulls up slightly when Enjolras tries to thrust against him. Of course Éponine picked him, Enjolras realizes with a sort of muddled clarity; she was smart, and she was crafty, and she had of course known Enjolras would pick Grantaire. “Shit,” comes out of Enjolras’ mouth, out into the kiss, and Grantaire huffs a laugh and rolls his hips against Enjolras’ own and if he wasn’t hard before he certainly is now.

Grantaire pushes Enjolras backwards, up, towards the head of the bed, until Enjolras is flat on his back with his head against the pillow. They study each other for a moment, and Enjolras thinks Grantaire is beautiful; his eyes are a little wild and his pupils are blown out, his hair is a disheveled mess and his lips are red and shiny, and his chest is heaving like he’s just run a marathon. “Too many clothes,” he grunts eventually, after a good minute of staring, and Enjolras is forced to arch off the bed while Grantaire tugs his shirt off. “Shit.” He sits back on his haunches and Enjolras is suddenly self conscious. Grantaire is surveying him like an animal stalking its prey, and Enjolras goes to pull his arms over his chest, but the smaller man catches him and holds his arms back against the bed, looking his fill. “Éponine told me she was going to set me up with someone, but she didn’t tell me she was setting me up with a god. Jesus Christ, I think this is how I die.”

Enjolras is blushing, straining against Grantaire’s arms. He gets in a good thrust upwards, gaining himself the friction his body craves. “Fuck, Grantaire, please,” he groans, and he thinks something about that must affect the other man very much, because his eyes go a little more glassy than they already were, and he dives in and sucks a hicky against Enjolras’ neck, something that will leave a mark and something that Éponine will be smug about even after it’s gone. His hips are rolling down against Enjolras’ own, providing some friction even though he keeps himself from pressing down too hard.

“Where do you keep your lube and shit?” Grantaire asks, and Enjolras somehow finds it in himself to respond with “top drawer.” Grantaire reaches up and opens the drawer, grabbing what he need and coming back to Enjolras without bothering to close it. They’re kissing again now, slightly softer and much less needy. It’s a wet glide, and Grantaire is biting at Enjolras’ lip and suddenly he realizes that Grantaire hasn’t removed any of his clothes, though he lost the wine bottle at some point. He decides that won’t do, and begins pushing and pulling desperately at Grantaire’s clothes. He’s whining now, soft keening noises, desperate for the feeling of flesh on flesh. Grantaire kisses him softly, reassures him with soft words that Enjolras doesn’t quite catch, before he pulls back and strips himself of his shirt. Or shirts, Enjolras supposes, since he’s wearing a couple layers of mismatched clothing. They’re discarded somewhere that’s highly irrelevant at the moment. Enjolras draws in a sharp breath, and Grantaire blushes at it, and suddenly the blonde is reaching up to touch, splaying one hand over the firm cords of muscle in Grantaire’s belly and using the other hand to catch a nipple between his thumb and forefinger, rolling it slightly and revelling in Grantaire’s sharp gasp and sudden flex of his hips. Enjolras wants more, he realizes, so he rolls them over. Grantaire must be distracted by something, probably the feeling of Enjolras’ hands on his skin, because he goes easily and willingly.

Enjolras is in power now, and he feels himself soar with it. He’s kissing, biting, sucking at Grantaire’s neck. Grantaire is squirming, groaning, tangling his fingers in Enjolras’ hair and good Lord Enjolras is fairly certain the zipper of his pants is going to be imprinted on his dick for the next week. “Jesus,” Grantaire gasps, and his hands go just tight enough to hurt in Enjolras’ hair when he moves down and sucks a nipple into his mouth. “Fuck… fuck, fuck, Enjolras!” The noises Grantaire is making are absolutely wicked, and Enjolras decides he needs more of the little keening sounds he keeps letting out. 

So Enjolras works his way down, pulling at the loose-fitting, stained sweatpants Grantaire is wearing. Some of the stains are food, but others are distinctly bright and Enjolras wonders fleetingly if Grantaire is a painter. He’s twisting his hips off the bed to aid Enjolras, and the sweatpants and Grantaire’s boxer briefs come off at the same time. “Shit. Shit, shit, shit.” Enjolras had formed a plan in his mind while he was pulling of Grantaire’s pants off. It was a shitty, half-formed plan, more a string of half-finished thoughts than anything. When he sees Grantaire’s cock, however, scarlet and straining and dripping precum onto his stomach, any plan is abandoned for _in mouth, now._

And with that, he promptly swallows Grantaire’s entire cock into his throat. It’s an effort; he hasn’t given head in a while. He hasn’t had sex in a while period. But he manages well enough, and Grantaire is moaning now, scrabbling at Enjolras’ hair and he seems lost, his moans mostly aroused but also a little bit confused. His hips are flexing up into Enjolras’ mouth and Enjolras just takes it, lets him, until Grantaire catches him and pulls him back. At first, Enjolras thinks he did something wrong, but judging from the way Grantaire is breathing like he’s been kicked in the throat and the hand not curled in Enjolras’ hair has gone white-knuckled fisted in the blanket, Enjolras thinks it a safe bet that he’s done everything right. “Do you… wanna stop?” Enjolras asks, a little confused, his lips shining with spit.

“No, God, no!” Grantaire says, maybe a little too frantic. “It’s just… if you wanted to fuck… I can’t really do much with a limp dick.”

“Who says we have to fuck?” Enjolras asks, and he knows he looks peevish but he was rather enjoying hearing Grantaire’s whimpers and moans and knowing they were for him. “We’re not confined to only sleeping together once, you know.”

“God, you’re going to kill me,” Grantaire mutters, his head falling back against the pillow. He doesn’t do anything else, but his hand is loosening on Enjolras’ hair, so he moves in again, wrapping his mouth around the head of Grantaire’s cock and stroking up and down his shaft with one hand. He knows Grantaire is close, if the bursts of salt against Enjolras’ tongue are any indication, so Enjolras sucks, and Grantaire twists up, withing, squirming, until finally Enjolras feels a hot sense of vindication and tastes warm cum explode up into his mouth.

Grantaire slumps down, limp, and Enjolras crawls up beside him to pepper little kisses against his neck. Once he comes back to his senses, Grantaire looks down and his eyebrows knit. “For God’s sake, you never even got your own pants off.”

“It’s okay.” Enjolras hums, his face pushed against the place where Grantaire’s neck meets his shoulder. Grantaire doesn’t listen though, and rolls them over so he can be on top. He fumbles with the button on the jeans and struggles a bit more with getting them down than Enjolras did with his sweatpants, but he manages. He rests his head against Enjolras’s own, not even bothering with the underwear that the blonde is wearing, just sticks his hand down Enjolras’ boxers and starts stroking. His breath is hot on Enjolras’ mouth and Enjolras feels himself beginning to respond, rutting up into Grantaire’s fist. “Do you -” Enjolras is interrupted by a soft grunt as Grantaire sweeps his thumb over the head of his cock and continues stroking. “Do you paint?”

He’s panting, squirming, pushing up into Grantaire’s hand and holding on to the blankets for dear life. “Yeah, why?”

He’s not sure why that does it, but Enjolras comes up off the bed, coating his boxers and Grantaire’s hand in his cum and feeling his limbs go to jelly. Grantaire removes his hand from his boxers and licks the cum off of it. “Fucking shit, Grantaire.” Enjolras grinds out, grinning lazily, and Grantaire leans in to give him a sloppy kiss.

“We need to do this again.” He’s saying, without moving his mouth away from Enjolras’.

And Enjolras is helpless to do anything but agree.


End file.
